


Tangible

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bed Warming, Established Relationship, Ficlet, Frottage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 22:37:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4455116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As always, Faramir wakes in his king’s bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tangible

**Author's Note:**

> Posted first [on my tumblr.](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/125327898980/ficlet-tangible-aragornfaramir-m)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He stirs from his dream with a bit of fumbling, pulled slowly into the waking world where he’s groggy, still a little tired, heavy but pleasant. The musk in the bed is thick from last night’s enjoyment, the mattress weighed down behind him. Faramir keeps his eyes closed. He thinks, perhaps, if he doesn’t dare to move, he can drift back off to sleep.

The silence is ruined by the man behind him: a loud, languid yawn, and the slight ruffle of the sheets. One bare leg scrapes against the back of his, coarse hair catching. It makes him smile and fills his heart the way it always does, the way he used to think it never would. When his father first gifted him to the new king of Gondor as a bed warmer, he was anxious—it felt a far fall from captain of the guards, at least to one who hadn’t chosen it. Boromir, of course, was the one to sit at council: a lesser ruler by Aragorn’s side. 

But Aragorn’s been kind to him, kinder than the steward ever has. Faramir holds a seat at the same table, across from his father’s deep scowl, much to the delight of Boromir. And on Faramir’s first night in Aragorn’s bed, he was given the choice to leave. 

At first, he stayed for lust. Aragorn is more than just a king, Isildur’s heir, wielder of the sword that was broken; he’s strong, wise, fair, and easily the most handsome man Faramir has still to ever see. A part of Faramir couldn’t believe his luck when he first realized that. Now, it’s become far more, and if Aragorn were burned or cut or aged tenfold, Faramir would still love him, and Faramir’s mornings are better than they’ve ever been. 

As if called by his lover’s musings, Aragorn rolls over suddenly, groaning lightly with the casting off of sleep, and his arm tosses heavily over Faramir’s middle. It tumbles down the blankets, curls in, and his palm presses into Faramir’s chest, though there’s no need to pull him back. Aragorn is already moving. He flattens himself against Faramir, their bodies warm but heating more together, still a little slick with sweat here and there from their efforts and the combined clinging of blankets and skin. Aragorn presses them together everywhere possible, legs and torso, the arm tightening its grip and Aragorn’s chin hooking over Faramir’s shoulder. Between the fallen strands of Faramir’s hair, he can feel the faint scratch of Aragorn’s stubble along his neck, Aragorn’s breath hot along his ear. Into it, Aragorn murmurs, “Good morning, love.”

“Good morning,” Faramir returns, his eyes finally slipping open—sleep is no match for his king’s allure. If he had room, he’d roll over and nuzzle into Aragorn, rock them together, thread his fingers through Aragorn’s hair and hold them tighter. But they’re too thickly sealed, so he only wriggles back, eliciting a gentle chuckle and his own hitch of breath when his rear snuggles into a hard shaft. 

He’s rewarded with a slow roll of Aragorn’s hips, dragging against Faramir’s bottom, and his moan comes out needy, already desperate. He turns his head but can’t get far enough for a kiss, though Aragorn kisses his shoulder. Around another, faded yawn, Aragorn purrs, “What a treat you are to awaken to each morning, my beautiful prince.”

Faramir’s cheeks almost hurt from grinning so hard, and he easily answers, “I am the lucky one, waking to my handsome king.” Aragorn begins to push the blanket away, and Faramir doesn’t protest. 

When they’re gone, Faramir kicks them away, and Aragorn turns him, rolling him gently around. Faramir hooks a leg over Aragorn’s hips as soon as he can, one of Aragorn’s legs slipping between his thighs. Without a word of it, they begin to grind together, never quite able to resist. Aragorn’s hand comes to cup Faramir’s cheek, Faramir’s fingers splaying over Aragorn’s chest. Their first kiss is chaste, though a little wet, and there’s a quiet pop as they part. Aragorn has morning breath just like any other man, though at times he seems so much _more_ , but Faramir’s too used to it to mind and _wants_ Aragorn too much. He brings their lips back together, and this time Aragorn’s tongue slips into his mouth, probing lightly about, as though to map what he must already have memorized. Faramir sighs happily and allows Aragorn the soft explanation, occasionally pressing his tongue back just to prolong it. Once they start, they always seem to have trouble stopping. 

But their hips keep going, and soon Faramir must pull back to moan. Aragorn’s made him stiff, and he can feel that Aragorn is as well. Faramir’s hands stray, tracing Aragorn’s sides, petting Aragorn’s stomach, and Aragorn does the same. They fall into a mix of touching and kissing and grinding into one another, until Aragorn parts their lips and asks, “Would you join me in my morning bath?”

“I would join you anywhere,” Faramir breathes, utterly sincere. He receives a smile in return and another kiss. 

Then Aragorn is lifting up and climbing over him. As he stumbles out of bed, Faramir fondly watches the sway of Aragorn’s taut rear, then sits up to follow.


End file.
